


No Space Lies In Between

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Exes Who Can't Get Enough Of Each Other, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-02 17:11:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5256824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy smirks at that, distinctively rumpled and boyish, “If only there was a guidebook on living with your ex, huh?” </p><p>She makes a face, “Well, I suppose you could write it. I wouldn’t count on it making the best-seller’s list though.” </p><p>(She has to remind herself that smirking is not a good look on Bellamy Blake. It’s <i>not.</i>)</p><p>Or: Clarke Griffin moves into her ex-boyfriend’s apartment- mostly out of convenience, but also mostly to spite her friends. In retrospect, she really should have thought this through.</p><p>
  <b> Winner of the Bellarke Fanfiction Awards Best Modern AU Fiction! </b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. june

**Author's Note:**

> basically I really wanted to write jealous roommates! bellarke, so you know. here we are.

**JUNE**

Clarke Griffin moves into her ex-boyfriend’s apartment during the last stretch of days leading up to summer.

“This is going to end poorly,” Raven tells her, her voice tinny and crackly over the phone as Clarke repositions it on her shoulder, “you wanted my two cents? Well that was it.”

“It’s a good thing I wasn’t asking for your permission then.” she mutters, wincing at the screech of tires as she maneuvers the truck into a parking spot.

Raven groans- a long, drawn out one, her favourite kind- before she goes, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She twists the keys in her grip, the rumbling of the truck dying down as she lets her head thump back against the seat rest.

“Trust me, I have been sufficiently warned. By all of you, in fact.”

“You broke up with Bellamy _eight months ago_ and now you’re moving in together?” The sentence is punctuated with a burst of static, Raven’s voice reduced to silence before jerking back to perfect clarity, “- it’s downright illogical.”

“That’s pretty ironic, considering I’m only doing this because it’s the logical choice,” she muses, rolling down the window and throwing her feet up against the dash.

There’s a pregnant pause, and Clarke sighs, gives in.

“You know my lease was up, and his apartment is so close to the hospital-”

“And he’s charging you a reasonable amount.” Raven interrupts, exasperated. “I know. We’ve gone through this.”

The lights go off for one of the apartments overhead. She starts counting the floors, tries to remember if Bellamy has ever mentioned that his apartment faces the carpark.

“Look,” Raven adds, brusque, “I just don’t want you to get hurt. I know people do crazy things after breakups.”

Clarke stifles a snort, tries not to think about the disaster that was Finn Collins. It’s not a big deal- not anymore at least- but they don’t talk about him. And when they do, it’s normally accompanied by a whole lot of expletives.

“It’s not like that with Bellamy,” she tries, sweeping her legs off the dash when she sees an approaching figure, “we can be mature adults about this. We are going to be mature adults about this. And besides, it’s not like we ended _badly_.”

“Not too badly,” Raven mutters, and then a tad more accusatory, “you guys didn’t talk for weeks.”

“A month,” ahe replies, absentminded, distracted by the tanned expanse of skin rounding the corner, the mussed hair, “but we’re friends now. Sort of.”

He gives a vague wave when he spots her, smile strained around the edges of his lips. Clarke tries not to stare at the old high school shirt that’s a little too snug around the shoulders, sticking to his skin as he lopes over to the truck.

She releases the breath she didn’t know she was holding, tightens her grip on the steering wheel.

“On a scale of one to ten, how crazy is this on the post-breakup scale?”

Raven gives an incredulous laugh, and Clarke dislodges the phone from under her shoulder, holds it in her sweaty palm so she can devote her full attention to it.

“You’re moving in with your ex-boyfriend. I think it’s safe to say you _broke_ the scale.”

“Always the optimist,” she says, dry, hitting the end button when Bellamy finally draws up next to her, his chin pressed up against her lowered window.

“I see you found your way here without my help,” he says, mild, “did you get your GPS fixed?”

She can’t help but scowl at that before schooling her expression to one of calm neutrality.

“Contrary to what you think, I do know how to read directions.” she says primly, and because she can’t help herself, adds, “Now if only someone knew how to drop a pin in Google maps-”

His eyes darken at that, she notes, oddly satisfied by the clenching of his jaw, the muscle popping as he rises fluidly from his spot.

(It’s nice to know that she can still rile him quite so easily, after all this time. Some things don’t change.)

“I’ll just start moving your stuff up then.” he says instead, turning away stiffly to grab at the boxes piled on the truck bed.

They have their very first argument as roommates in the stairwell of his- correction, their- apartment building.

She suggests bringing down the flat trolley to stack the boxes up instead and he bristles at the insinuation that he can’t handle a few boxes. He shouts down her protests that all this lifting would hurt his back (the idiot _refuses_ to go to a chiropractor) and it escalates to the point of _why can’t you just accept my help already-_

They carry the rest of the boxes up together in stony silence.

And Clarke’s pretty sure that if they’d still were a couple, this would be the part when Bellamy would pin her up against the wall, his mouth harsh against hers while she clawed at his back. She would bite at the juncture between his neck and shoulder and he would rain kisses down her sternum, each one of them accompanied with an apology because he hated it when she got mad at him-

“Welcome home, princess.” he says instead, sardonic, dropping the last box and shoving it roughly by the door to keep it open. She crosses her arms across her chest, pinches at the soft skin of her inner elbow to keep herself from going off on him.

“Home sweet home,” She mutters when he slams his bedroom door shut behind him, shaking the walls.

 

+

This is how they get together: in the midst of one of the worst thunderstorms to have hit the east coast.

(Bellamy likes to tell the story differently, but, well. She likes her version best.)

He turns up at her doorstep at two in the morning, dripping wet and furious, his hands digging into her shoulders, voice breaking, _jesus why didn’t you pick up your fucking phone-_

“I was painting,” she tells him, grabs onto his forearms to steady his shaking form, “I couldn’t hear the phone ringing over the noise-”

“I was worried sick,” he snarls, wrenching away from her and sinking down onto the sofa, “for fuck’s sake, Clarke.”

“You could have just dropped me a text,” she snaps, irritable, “you don’t have to mother me, Bellamy. I’m not Octavia.”

The flash of hurt in his eyes is unmistakable, and she cringes, reaches to pull at his sleeve-

“Got it,” he huffs, pushing up to his feet and avoiding her hand deftly, “I’m going to go now.”

“You’re not going _anywhere_ , you can barely see out there in this rain.”

Bellamy reaches the door first, but she slams it shut before he can slide out, deadbolting it for good measure. He’s close enough that she can feel warmth radiating off his body despite the wet clothes, droplets of water trapped against his lashes.

“Seriously?”

Clarke snorts at that, folding her arms across her chest. “What do you think? I’d be crazy to let you go back out there. I can’t believe you drove over here, in this weather-”

“I ran,” he says, snide, “how did you think I got so wet?”

She blinks up at him, the wet clothes plastered against skin, the veritable puddle forming on her floor.

“Why would you do that?”

The strangled noise that leaves his throat would have been funny, she thinks, if he wasn’t still looking at her like that, all anguish and worry-

She reaches up, hesitant, and cups his face in her palm, rubs against his clammy skin. He shivers, a full bodied one, but relaxes into her touch anyway, exhaling against her cheek.

“I was going out of mind,” Bellamy tells her, shaky, throat bobbing as he swallows, “I thought you were hurt, or-”

“I’m sorry for making you worry,” Clarke murmurs, taps at his cheekbone until he manages a small smile for her, “and I didn’t mean what I said earlier.”

“Trust me,” he says lowly, catching at her wrist, his thumb making slow revolutions against bone, “I know you’re not Octavia.”

She’s not sure what emboldens her then- maybe it’s the knowledge that he doesn’t think of her as a little sister, or that she has been stupidly in love with him for _months_ \- but she finds herself surging up to kiss him, closing the distance between them as she slides her hands down to his neck.

He crushes her against his chest, swallowing her squeak as he kisses her back with enough ferocity to bruise. She tangles her fingers in his hair when he latches his lips at her neck, nipping and biting until she quivers, tugging at his shirt impatiently. He laughs at that, kisses her more languidly instead, slow and deep and methodical.

And after, when she’s lying against his chest and tracing patterns against his clavicle, he tells her about when it started for him.

 

+

It’s hard to stay mad at him when he’s slouching against the doorframe of her room, deceptively casual, his fingers curled around a bottle of tequila.

(He knows it’s her favorite too. Bastard.)

“I come bearing gifts,” Bellamy says, mock-solemn, nodding feverishly in a way that suggests he may have snuck a few sips already, “can I?”

“May I,” she corrects him, her smirk widening when he flips her off, “And you may.”

He takes a deliberate, pointed step past the threshold of her room, his sock-clad feet sliding against the smooth wooden floors before he rights himself. She sneaks a peek over at his feet, and yeah, it’s the pair she bought him last christmas, the one with the cats wearing little hats on them. She stifles her smile.

“I like what you’re doing with the place,” he tells her, conversational, a lazy smile edging against his lips, “It’s what the kids call minimalist.”

“Pretty sure that’s what grown adults call it too.”

Bellamy shushes her at that, flitting from one point of her room to the other, his fingers dancing against the spines of her books, running along the window blinds.

(She settles down onto her bed, gets comfortable. Nothing amuses her quite like a drunk Bellamy.)

He pauses- in a half-crouch, no less- along the bottom shelf, frown deepening as he sets the bottle down on the floor, swaying precariously.

“Wait a minute, is that my copy of the aeneid?”

“Nope,” she says pointedly, nudging at the abandoned bottle with her foot so it rolls to the side and away from him, “I bought my own.”

“You never used to be interested until I converted you,” He laughs, tripping over the _r’s,_ smile wide as he rests the book in his lap, “You used to think it was pretentious.”

She did, really. Clarke used to think that he only claimed to have read the books he read just to _sound_ smart- the word elitist was thrown around a lot in the early days- but that was before she caught him reading a book on home maintenance.

She learned, eventually, that Bellamy read everything he could get his hands on. She liked that about him, but mostly, she liked listening to him read, her face pressed up against his chest while his hands weaved through her hair. His voice would get scratchy after a few hours, hoarse and raspy and dark and it always made her squirm, rubbing her thighs together as he went on and on about the difference between nordic and egyptian myths.

(He figures it out after their second month together and it becomes more of a game than anything, ghosting his hands along her thigh, his warm breath fanning against the shell of her ear until she’d snap and kiss him senseless, words dying on the roof his tongue.)

“You made a compelling argument,” Clarke says instead, keeping her face carefully blank when he flushes in response, the tips of his ears glowing red.

(The last time he read to her, well. It was a good memory.)

“I’m sorry I yelled at you before,” Bellamy says, earnest, when she helps him to his feet and onto the bed next to her, “I didn’t mean to, you know. I tried not to.”

“I know,” she tells him, uncapping the bottle and taking a measured sip, “I knew you weren’t just trying to rile me up.”

Then, because he’s still looking at her, all expectant, she adds, “I knew it wasn’t going to be a walk in the park, okay?”

Bellamy smirks at that, distinctively rumpled and boyish, “If only there was a guidebook on living with your ex, huh?”

She makes a face, “Well, I suppose you could write it. I wouldn’t count on it making the best-seller's list though.”

(She has to remind herself that smirking is not a good look on Bellamy Blake. It’s _not._ )

“Fair enough,” he says, mild, the springs of the bed groaning as he pushes off, “you can have the rest of it. It’s a housewarming gift.”

“So you are capable of being nice,” she muses, grinning, and she’s not sure if it’s from the warmth of her belly or Bellamy’s smile, “miracles will never cease.”

“Shut up,” he mutters, good-natured, before it trails off into a swear when he nearly runs into the door.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a really uncoordinated person?”

“Yeah, and I want my book back.” he slurs, and at her confused expressions, adds, “I thought we were just stating facts.”

“It’s not yours,” she says, pushing at his chest gently until he stumbles away, still smiling. “Go to bed, you big baby.”

He gives her a two finger salute in lieu of goodnight, and she waits until he thumps down the stairs before she shuts the door and slides the book back onto the shelf.

+

He tiptoes around her after that first night.

They’re not fighting that much anymore- which she supposes is a good thing because it’s exhausting to be constantly at odds with one another- but it’s almost unnerving how polite he is now.

(She didn’t think Bellamy was capable of asking for anything nicely, ever, and it takes a herculean effort not to stare when he asks her to _please pass the salt._ )

Clarke wants to say that she likes it- that she prefers it compared to the bickering and the passive aggressive sniping- but he’s distant now, quiet almost, and she feels a lot more like a house guest than a friend.

“I don’t see the problem here,” Raven points out during one of their nightly calls, “I’m actually pretty proud of him, actually. I didn’t think he’d have it in him to be mature.”

She opens her mouth to argue, to tell Raven that it’s not maturity if he’s avoiding her, not if he’s choosing to pull away, but the words stay caught between her teeth.

It’s not his fault that he’s clueless when it comes to navigating their relationship, she reasons, considering that she is as confused as he is about the state of it. After all, they spent the last eight months flip-flopping between antagonising each other and avoiding each other entirely. Clarke really shouldn’t expect things to change just because they live under the same roof now.

So she says nothing when he spends all of breakfast making small talk, when they pass each other in the corridors with a clear foot of space between them. If anything, she understands why he’s acting the way he is, but _god_ does she hate it.

Clarke mostly holes up in her room now- because honestly, it’s a lot less awkward when they don’t see each other- so it must be some form of karma when she runs into him in the stairwell after a horrendous day of work.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, instinctive almost, and she nearly laughs at the absurdity of the situation, because _how_ is it that Bellamy is still able to read her even with miles and miles between them?

“Nothing,” she tries, but it’s hard to keep her voice level when her eyes are stinging to keep from crying, “I’m just exhausted.”

His arms flutter uselessly at his sides, like he’s not sure what to do with them now that everything’s different; “Well, if you need to talk-”

“I said I was fine,” she snaps, and her throat hitches at his stupidly wounded expression because seriously, _fuck_ Bellamy Blake-

“Hey,” he says, soft, as her vision starts to blur, “Clarke, it’s okay.”

“Don’t tell me how to feel,” she sniffs, but it’s an effort to talk through the mucus and painful shuddering of her chest.

She hasn’t cried this hard since she was in college, when Octavia had dared her to scale the climbing wall without her gear on and the impact of falling had rattled her teeth and send tremors down her spine. Bellamy had been furious when he found out, but he was the one who carried her all the way to the hospital as she wept against his shirt, humming against her ear and holding her hand when the doctors set the bone back in place.

Even then- when they weren’t friends, not really- he had been good at comforting, at being there for her. The realisation just makes her cry even harder.

His arms are hesitant around her when he finally pulls her close, but they settle back into each other easily; she finds the jut between neck and shoulder where she used to rest her chin, and his hands come up to tangle in her hair, to cradle the back of her neck.

It has been months and months and months, and it’s still easy for her to melt into his touch. It’ll always be easy, she thinks, to trust him.

"Is this okay?” he asks, shaking, and she can feel the bob of his throat against her neck when he swallows, “Are you-”

“It’s more than okay,” she manages, a laugh gurgling from her throat, “we’re good.”

“We’re good.” he echoes, and she thinks about telling him about how much she’s missed him, about how hard it’s been without her best friend-

But he tightens his grip on her, his breath a ragged exhale against her neck before breathing her in as they sway on the spot, all affection and familiarity, and yeah, she’s pretty sure he already knows.

(He nudges her out of the way when she reaches for her cereal on the top shelf the next day, exasperated, before getting it down himself. They play scrabble and get into a fight over abbreviations after and it starts feeling a lot more like home.)


	2. july

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter should probably be retitled to: I am still stupidly attracted to my ex and I'm MAD about it

**JULY**

_Clarke will REMEMBER to unclog the shower drain because there never used to be this problem_

 

It’s not everyday Bellamy unceremoniously deposits a unidentifiable clump by her cereal.

Ordinarily, Clarke would just ignore him (mostly because he does dramatic shit like this all the time) but he actually looks mad today, so she swallows her mouthful of cereal, and goes for a diplomatic, “What?”

He glares, ekes out, “Seriously? You don’t know what it is?”

“Am I supposed to?”

“You should, considering it’s your _hair_ ,” he says, throwing it towards her lap. She skids to the other side of the counter instinctively, the clump making a wet, satisfying thwack as it lands on the ground instead.

She peers at the soggy lump from the safety of the counter, pokes at it with a lone chopstick left behind from yesterday’s takeout.

“I’m pretty sure there are some dark hairs in here too.”

“That’s what you’re going with?”

“Fine, I’m sorry.” Clarke snaps, clambering down back onto the ground, “I’ll unclog the shower drain from now on, okay?”

“No way,” Bellamy scoffs, the tell-tale furrow of his brow deepening, “I’m not going to take your word for it.”

“Are you telling me you want this in _writing_?” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest.

It’s always been a sure-fire way to distract him, and sure enough (she notes with a tinge of satisfaction) his eyes dart down quickly to the heaving of her chest before it slides back up to her face.

“Do you have a problem with that?” he retorts.

“No, but only because my shift starts in fifteen minutes and I need this charade to be over by then.” she grumbles.

(He puts it up on the fridge- she suspects mostly to mock her- but he lets her pick the magnets to hold it up, so it’s win-win, really.)

 

+

_Bellamy will NOT host parties in the apartment without giving Clarke at least THREE DAYS NOTICE_

 

The only thing remotely consistent about Clarke’s overnight shifts is that she’s bound to crash for at least sixteen hours after.

Bellamy knows better than to try and wake her- considering she’s known to kick even when asleep- but apparently that doesn’t stop him from making a fucking _racket_ at four in the afternoon.

Swearing under her breath, she wrangles the sheets off her sticky form and stumbles out of the door, ready to smite him with the force of her glare alone-

“Hey,” He blinks up at her from under the couch, a fine layer of dust coating his lashes and interspersed in his hair, “you’re up early.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Moving the couch,” Bellamy says with exaggerated slowness, “I’m making more room for everyone. Lincoln takes up half the room sitting down.”

“Pray tell,” Clarke says through gritted teeth, resisting the childish urge to kick at the sofa, “why is Lincoln coming over?”

“For the housewarming party.” he states, nonchalant even when her hands curls into fists, “I was going to wake you an hour before they arrived.”

“One whole hour? That’s mighty _considerate_ of you-”

“That’s more than enough time,” he argues, scowling when she makes a rude hand gesture at him, “I thought you’d be happy to see all our friends.”

“Not when I just got off an overnight shift,” ahe snarls, gesturing at her stained scrubs, the smudged makeup that she had been too tired to wash off, “not when I look like _this_ -”

“You look fine,” he grumbles- deflecting, a classic Bellamy move- and really, the only response to that is to storm off because there’s no winning with him whenever he reverts to being a five year old.

Clarke’s still scrubbing at her face when he ducks in, clearing his throat as if to announce his presence. She can’t help but shoot him a pointed look in response, eyes still stinging from where she had rubbed at it with a swab soaked in makeup remover. At least he has the grace to look ashamed at that.

“You should use a cotton pad.”

“That’s not an apology.” Clarke retorts, swiping at her lower lid, “How about, I’m sorry for being a inconsiderate _ass_ -”

She breaks off when he settles down across her, nimbly grabbing the swab from her and taking over where she left off, carefully working at the creases by her eyes and along the lid.

“You don’t have to mother me,” she tells him, but she finds herself relaxing at his touch anyway, shivering when he holds her chin in place gently, his thumb poised over her bottom lip.

The corners of his mouth twitch at that, “You’ll thank me when you’re fifty with baby soft skin.”

“You’ve been reading my issues of cosmo again, haven’t you?”

“Vogue,” he corrects her, setting down the swab and dousing a pad with makeup remover instead, “don’t leave them lying around the bathroom if you don’t want me to read it.”

They lapse back into silence, Bellamy’s steady breaths warm against her face as she begins to nod off.

“I only called them over to spite Miller,” he says, quiet, “he didn’t think we would last two weeks.”

“Well, it’s been an entire month,” She murmurs, drowsy from the heat and his skin sliding against hers, “I hope you made some money off this.”

He snorts at that- the sound more amused than annoyed- “I didn’t take up the bet, Clarke. I don’t know about you, but I’m a grown adult.”

And maybe it’s because nothing feels real about this moment, her thoughts far too sluggish and Bellamy’s eyes soft, but she says it anyway.

“I would have.”

He’s still wiping at her face, albeit slower than before, and she wonders if he’s just humouring her when he asks, “Would have what?”

“I would have bet on us.” she tells him, because it’s true. Because it’s _right_. Because if there was anything she would want Bellamy to know, it’s that she always did have faith in them, and especially in him.

He pauses his ministrations against her skin, long enough for her to realise the gravity of what she just said, of the newfound tension surging just below the surface-

“But you left anyway,” And there’s an edge to his voice now, the words sharp as he swallows. Then, almost as if reminding himself, “you left me.”

 _I didn’t mean to_ , she nearly says, but he’s already pulling away anyway, a familiar cacophony of creaking bones that she would have laughed at before, just one of those small things that she would have teased him about.

“Go take a shower, okay?” he says, then at her non-reaction, adds, “I’ll see you out there.”

“See you,” She manages, but only when he’s left the room.

 

+

_Clarke will NOT go through Bellamy’s liquor stash (or drink on a empty stomach)_

 

They run out of tequila sometime around the fourth hour, which according to Jasper, is grounds for leaving a party early.

In all honesty, Clarke would be absolutely fine with Jasper leaving (mostly because he’s a notorious crying drunk) but he’s trying to take Raven with him, which is distinctly _not okay_ considering she’s pretty comfortable right now with her head resting against Raven’s lap.

“Don’t go,” she whines against Raven’s jean clad thigh- and she has to take a second to remember how she got there- before Jasper starts bemoaning his sober state all over again.

“ _I’m_ leaving if Jasper doesn’t shut up,” Miller cuts in, irritable, and that is enough to spur Clarke into action because Miller is downright hilarious when he’s drunk, and she’s not sure it’s can be called a party without one of his drunken rants about the state of society.

Bellamy, predictable as always, she thinks, grinning, still stashes his loot in his sock drawer, with the good stuff swaddled between the too small pairs riddled with holes. She picks out a bottle of wine and spends five whole minutes wrestling with the cap before remembering that she has to uncork it first.

And she must have fallen over at some point, because here she is- staring up at Bellamy’s ceiling- trying to remember if they had used a ladder to put up the glow in the dark stars or if he had just hoisted her up on his shoulders.

They spent hours and hours on it because he wanted them to look exactly like the constellations, and she remembers looking up at him, thinking about how easy it was to fall in love with him in the lulls between the chaos, in the quiet.

Clarke loved him gradually- in the small moments, in the fleeting ones- until the feeling seized at her chest and flooded her lungs, and one day she looked at him and nothing was the same anymore.

She blinks, stars blurring before her eyes as she waits for the nausea to pass. She should probably move before Bellamy finds her here, but even the thought of pushing up from the ground makes her sick.

In the end, Raven finds her before anyone else (Clarke’s not surprised, really) and in true Raven fashion, joins her on the floor all while uncorking the bottle of wine and taking a large swig.

“You know,” she says, uncharacteristically gentle, “you can always crash at my place for a few days. The couch is pretty old, but I’m sure it’ll hold your weight.”

“I like it here,” Clarke mutters, resting her hand against her clammy forehead in a misguided attempt to knead the pounding away, “everything’s fine.”

“Right,” Raven says, dry, “so if you were capable of movement and coherency, you _wouldn’t_ be rifling through Bellamy’s drawers, burying your face in his clothes, and crying about your doomed love?”

“I hate you,” she manages, using the last of her energy to shove at her elbow, “But thank you, for offering.”

Raven hums in response, resting her chin against the crook of her neck and nuzzling. Clarke reaches over to pet her hair absentmindedly, tries to stifle the grin that’s threatening to show on her face. Raven’s only ever affectionate when she’s drunk, slurring and dramatic declarations of love rolling off her lips all at once. It’s definitely a sight to behold.

But eventually her need to pee wins out, and with a murmured, “The offer always stands, okay?”, Raven stumbles out and she’s still on the ground, staring at the spaces between the stars.

She drifts in and out of sleep, occasionally tries groaning so someone would hear her and help her off the floor but it’s tiring, and her throat feels swollen at the effort, her eyes burning with the effort of staying conscious.

There’s a dull edge of panic coursing through her veins now- logically, she knows Bellamy will find her- but judging from this afternoon’s events, she wouldn’t be surprised if he left her here out of spite. She wouldn’t blame him. The pounding of her head intensifies.

It takes her a while to realise that the pounding she’s hearing is actually the sound of footfalls, and it’s only when he lifts her, grunting as he settles her head against his chest, does she realise that it’s in fact Bellamy and not a figment of her imagination.

He sighs, weary but fond, “I was saving that bottle.”

Clarke mumbles an apology against his shirt, bunching the fabric up in her fist when he takes the stairs two at a time. Showoff.

Then, as he settles down into the warmth of her sheets, “When is the last time you ate?”

“Water,” she croaks in lieu of an reply, and she can vaguely hear him fumbling with the cup by her desk before fetching it over, holding it against her mouth until she begins to take measured sips.

“Better?” he asks when she turns her face away, sinking further down into the pillows. He’s sweaty from carrying her, partly obscured in shadow so all she can make out is his mussed hair and a glint of teeth.

She shifts just so the light falls against his jaw, the curve of his lips. She always thought he had a nice lips, even when he had just been Octavia’s infuriating older brother and all she wanted to do was punch his teeth in.

“Are you staring at my mouth?” he asks, amused, leaning forward to plant his elbows against his knees, light hitting him full in the face.

“Course not,” Clarke grumbles, but it comes out as a unconvincing slur as she shifts her gaze away.

“It’s okay,” Bellamy adds, conspiratorial, “I’m ridiculously attractive and you’re only human.”

“You’re-- I wasn’t even staring, just looking. You have an aesthetically pleasing mouth, okay?”

She cringes once the words leave her mouth- she just knows he’s going to give her so much shit for it- and sure enough, Bellamy’s full-blown grinning now and she’s scowling back, so ridiculously familiar and easy.

“Aesthetically pleasing,” he snickers, setting the cup by the nightstand, “wow. You’re really drunk now, aren’t you?”

“I will _vomit_ on you.”

He mutters a vague, _been there done that_ before tucking her in, his hands cool against her skin. She pulls the sheets up to her chin, closes her eyes when he sweeps her hair off her forehead.

“You’re really going to feel it tomorrow,” he tells her, solemn almost, but she can feel his smile when he presses a dry kiss against her forehead.

“Sure, mom.” she says, mostly to make him smile and she thinks she hears a chuckle before the door shuts and everything goes dark.  

+

_Bellamy will stop taking OBNOXIOUSLY long showers and using up all the hot water because it’s RUDE_

**  
** He doesn’t bring up the remark the next morning, thankfully, but he seems to take some sort of sick pleasure in taunting her now. Always standing a little too close, hovering and waiting for her to flush and stutter in response at the proximity. It’s pathetic. And also working. Clarke hates it. **  
**

She barges in at the forty-five minute mark- mostly because she has to brush her teeth before work- and also because she’s not _scared_ of Bellamy Blake. He can’t make her go away by playing on this stupid attraction she still has for him.

There’s a muffled, _what the fuck_ , Clarke, but he does absolutely nothing to cover himself up. She keeps her gaze fixed on the sink, meticulously squeezing the remnants of toothpaste out of the tube.

“Uhm, in case you didn’t notice, I was showering.”

“And I need to brush my teeth.” she manages, running the brush under the sink, “In case you didn’t know, my shift starts in ten.”

“You’re violating my privacy,” he chuckles, amused, and Clarke is _resolutely_ not looking his way-

“I’m not going to look, Bellamy.” She’s tempted to add that it’s nothing she hasn’t seen before, but, well. It’s probably inappropriate.

“Sure you aren’t.” Clarke can practically hear the smirk in his voice. It’s the worst.

The water starts up again and she holds out for about, five seconds, before chancing a peek. He’s broader than before, the tanned expanse of his back corded with muscle as he lathers shampoo in his hair.

She swallows, tries to will away the blush rising high on her cheeks. It takes a tremendous amount of effort considering all she can see is her favourite cluster of freckles right between his shoulder blades, the tiny indent against his spine.

(Bellamy had balked when she had told him, delightedly, that it was a dimple. “It’s cute.” she had insisted when he had made a face. “Whatever,” He had muttered, strangely unnerved until she dragged her nails over it and made his hips jerk into the mattress.)

The screech of the shower knob snaps her out of her reverie, and Clarke looks away hastily before he can catch her staring. The skin of her neck is a light, mottled pink now but she can always blame it on the steam.

She figures out the exact moment he starts soaping up, mostly because she can feel him staring, the heat of his gaze burning against the back of her neck, sliding down to her bare legs. She releases a shaky breath, spits out the glob of toothpaste so she can hide her face behind a curtain of hair.

His eyes meet hers briefly in the reflection by the mirror, and her knees go embarrassingly weak.

“So,” he says, averting his gaze as she stares down at the chipped circumference of the sink, “are you going to make it back for dinner?”

She hums in response, tries to ignore the wet slap of his feet against the bathroom floor as he draws closer, towel knotted hastily over his hips. His breath is warm against the back of her neck when he reaches past her to grab his toothbrush, his arm grazing her ribs.

"Gotta go,” she mumbles, wiping the back of her mouth with her hand as she attempts to sidestep him to the door, colliding against his bare chest-

Bellamy grabs onto her elbows, small smile playing on his lips, the pads of his fingers drawing slow, lazy circles against bone when she shivers.

“Careful,” he drawls, releasing her pointedly, smirk giving way to a full-blown grin as he stares down at her flushed face, “Floor’s really slippery.”

He’s totally fucking with her, isn’t he? (Fucking _asshole._ )

She takes extra pleasure in slamming the door behind her when she goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me at my trash heap [tumblr](http://prosciuttoe.tumblr.com/)


	3. august

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> basically a six inch subway sandwich of angst and fluff and FEELINGS

**AUGUST**

Clarke’s not expecting them to fall into routine quite so easily, but they do anyway.

He always has the radio on when she gets up in the morning, apron ridiculously snug over his form when she ambles down the stairs. He never lets her head out without a somewhat nutritious breakfast (“ _That’s_ not breakfast, Clarke. Sit down, I’ll make you something for christ sake.”) and she brings in the mail because he never checks otherwise.

She likes to text him in the intervals between her shifts, mostly because Raven is a lousy texter and Wells takes about five hours to get back to her. Sometimes she calls- just to hear his voice, not that she’d ever admit it- and he’d listen to her go on and on about her patients, her colleagues, and _did you hear about this_ -

On the days where Bellamy helps Miller out at the bar, she goes over after work so they can grab a quick dinner together. It just makes more sense- distance-wise- anyway. Otherwise it’s takeout and a movie before passing out on the couch.

It’s stupid, she thinks. With all the bickering they’ve been doing, she’s forgotten that he’s actually easy to be around, comfortable, even. There isn’t any pressure to do anything together, or talk about anything in particular. It’s just _being_ together, with Bellamy on one end of the couch, reading, feet pressed against her thighs while she goes through her instagram feed.

Clarke’s already half asleep when she hears the jingle of keys, her head resting against Bellamy’s chest, his arm a comforting weight over her shoulders. They must have shifted at some point, considering their entwined limbs, but she can’t remember when.

She can feel Bellamy stirring, a murmured _who the hell_ against her hair-

To her credit, Octavia doesn’t even bat an eyelid at the scene before her, just points out, “Isn’t it a little early to be going to bed?”

“He picked a documentary,” she says as a way of explanation, disentangling herself fluidly, “you know how it is.”

“You couldn’t have _called?_ ” Bellamy grouches, but the fondness in his voice is unmistakable.

“I did but you didn’t _answer_ -”

This has all the makings of an dragged out, painful argument- Clarke has come to recognize the signs in the years- so she extricates herself under the guise of making coffee. She can still hear the faint strains of bickering over the boiling of the kettle.

She’s reaching for the milk when she hears it, Octavia’s voice cutting through the white noise.

“Give her a chance, won’t you? I told her you were actually nice, for one.”

“I can be nice,” he mutters, sullen, and she has to strain her ears this time to hear Octavia’s sigh.

“Well, I think you guys would be good together.” A pause, followed by a grunt that suggests that she probably kicked him in the shins, a knee-jerk reaction to whenever Bellamy rolls his eyes, “You’ll be punctual, and you’ll be nice to Roma. Promise.”

“Of course I’m going to be nice,” She wonders if he’s slumped over now, arms crossed over chest, hangdog expression for maximum effect, “it’s great that you have so much faith in me.”

The sofa groans under Octavia’s weight- Clarke suspects that she might have thrown herself on it quite dramatically- before she adds, “I’m actually more surprised I got you to agree to this.”

“Well, I thought it was time.” He says, soft, and Clarke’s body goes cold.

It’s not- it’s not completely out of left field for Bellamy to start dating again. She knows this, but, well. It still feels like a punch to her gut, her lungs heaving for air as she scrambles to adjust to the fact that he could be anyone else’s but hers.

 _You’ve had months to adjust_ , she reminds herself, swallowing, her palms clammy against her thighs, _what were you expecting?_

The coffee’s gone cold by the time she hauls the cups out, but they don’t mention it even if they notice. Bellamy gets the documentary going again, Octavia burrowing against her side, their thighs pressed up against one another. They’re two minutes in when he reaches out to  take her hand, lacing their fingers together when she leans back into his warmth.

She gives herself this, for now.

+

This is how they break up: on the precipice of winter and without so much as a whimper.

They’ve been working towards it for weeks now, stony silence on her part and quiet unease on his. It’s almost ironic, really. She braced herself for infernos when it turned out to be nothing but a wanly flickering flame.

“I can’t fix this,” he tells her, small and soft, “I can’t fix this if you won’t tell me what’s wrong.”

Clarke nearly gives in then- because he’s devastated in a way that she’s never seen before, eyes wet and shaking hands, fucking _desperate_ \- but she’s nothing if not committed, so she stays quiet.

 _Everything I touch turns to shit_ , she almost says, words rattling in her mouth and against teeth, _nothing good ever stays with me._

Because Finn didn’t, and neither did Lexa or her father and one day, she would have to add Bellamy’s name to the list because Clarke didn’t just break hearts, she left a trail of bodies too.

Her mother knows this. Everyone does, really, though it just comes down to the fact that nobody’s willing to say it. Maybe if she hadn’t reminded her of it, Clarke would have remained blissfully oblivious, happy even. But her mother was a catalyst to an already lit candle wick, and now all that was left was to burn.

And so she does the only thing she knows how: Clarke ruins, and then she runs.

She stays away long enough for him to hate her, for him to grow to resent her. And when she comes back, he stares her down and spits _princess_ and everything is exactly the way she wants it to be.

+

“So have you done it yet?”

Clarke shifts her gaze back to the camera, arches a brow at Raven’s smug expression, the loose twist of her wrist as she pops a reese piece into her mouth, chewing triumphantly.

“Sorry, what is it that I’m supposed to be doing again?”

“Googling Bellamy’s date,” Raven says, cackling when Clarke swears, fumbling to lower the speaker volume.

“No,” she says vehemently, “and I don’t intend to. He’s allowed to date whoever he likes.”

“It’s Ronnie, right?” Raven affirms, tapping at her keyboard furiously.

“Roma,” she corrects her, then scowls at Raven’s pleased expression, “I mean it, Rae. Don’t look her up. Aren’t you supposed to be heading out anyway?”

“Nope,” She says, absentminded, “Wells is working late tonight and I’m only swinging by later to bring him some food.”

“You guys are disgustingly domestic,” Clarke mutters, and at Raven’s scoff, she adds, “I meant it in a good way.”

“I would really _hate_ to bring up how domestic you and Bellamy are.”

“Fair point.” she admits grudgingly, “Please don’t tell me you actually found anything on her.”

“Nothing too incriminating,” Raven grins, and she can hear the faint _ping_ of her Skype chat before it starts blinking frantically, “I’m sending over some links now.”

“ _Links?_ ”

“All her social media accounts are public,” Raven argues, “It’s like she’s asking to be internet-stalked.”

“Bye, Rae.”

“Don’t you dare hang-”

But she’s already jabbing at the end call button anyway, palms slipping against her mouse as she cancels the window. Clarke is _not_ going down this rabbit hole. No fucking way.

She holds out through sheer willpower for an entire day, before caving and re-opening her skype conversation with Raven. Her intention was just to glance at it, purely cursory of course, and yet she’s here, going through Roma’s LinkedIn, Facebook and Twitter all at once while simultaneously powering through a carton of ice cream.

Clarke’s considering if reading Roma’s dissertation (uploaded on JStor, _public fucking property_ and hence fair game) would be a little much when she hears a soft, pointed cough from behind her.

She gives a little shriek, hastily closing several windows blindly before swivelling around to face Bellamy.

“What are you doing?” he asks, pleasant, lazy almost, perched against her doorframe languidly.

“Facebook,” she says, mirroring his tone, forcing herself to relax the set of her shoulders, “the usual.”

“Who’s that?”

“Oh,” Clarke manages an airy laugh, thanks whatever deities up there that the page is displaying her friend requests instead of Roma’s profile, “work colleague. He sent in a friend request.”

“He’s cute,” Bellamy adds, conversational, crossing into her room, loose-limbed but distinctly predatory. She swallows roughly when he comes up behind her, resting his hand against the back of her chair.

“I guess,” she replies, flippant, toggling her mouse and clicking the accept button.

“If you’re into jailbait,” he says, vindictive, and she whips her head back to glare at him.

“He’s only _two_ years younger.”

“He could pass off as a sixteen year old,” Bellamy notes, smug, “he doesn’t even have stubble yet, see?”

“Maybe I like them clean-shaven.” she snipes, resisting the urge to push at his chest, to create some distance between them.

“No, you don’t.” he says lowly. Her inhale is sharp, loud in the small space and Bellamy’s smirk seems to have gotten _dirtier_ at the sound. God, she hates him.

(She used to love his stubble, the rasp it would make against her skin, how prickly it felt under her fingers. Sometimes he would drag his chin over the soft skin of her neck, mostly to tease, to make her squirm. Other times it served as a prelude to more fun activities.)

“Well, I didn’t think you’d date a girl who’ll consider a magazine her favorite book, but here we are.”

He frowns at that, expression quizzical before he composes himself, “And pray tell, how would you know that?”

 _Shit_. She flails wildly for a second, her hands making vague, scattered motions before she comes up with an eloquent, “Octavia told me. About Roma, that is.”

“That makes sense,” he says, in honeyed tones that suggests he means the exact opposite, “They’re friends, right?”

“Yeah,” Clarke grunts, standing up abruptly so he’d have no choice but to back up a few steps, “I’m starving. Shall we get takeout?”

The rest of the evening proceeds in the same manner- all passive aggressive remarks and snide one liners- until Bellamy says something particularly scathing about Sterling that causes her to burst into laughter, the explosive and unrestrained kind, shoulders shaking and ribs hurting-

When she’s composed herself, Bellamy’s smiling at her, all triumphant, as if he’s won some sort of battle. She rolls her eyes at him and he leers at her, kicking out at her with his foot until she takes up his offer of foot wrestling.

(He’s back on Sterling’s case the very next day, but she also spots him scanning Roma’s profile on Facebook almost worriedly. It’s strangely satisfying.)

+

Bellamy Blake has a pre-date ritual.

Octavia used to set him up on dates all the time and sometimes Clarke would go over and he’d right be in the midst of it, shaving or hanging up his shirt by the shower so the steam would work out the kinks, slicking back his hair with copious amounts of hair gel.

But more often than not, he’d get distracted- when she’s beguiling him with tales of her day, trailing after him from room to room, or when she starts fucking with his netflix queue- to the point where he would turn up for his date _hours_ late.

(Octavia always sends a voicemail after, and it’s tradition for them to listen to it together with the harry potter soundtrack in the background to counteract all that negativity)

So it’s not much of a surprise to find flowers in the fridge and an array of ties thrown over the arm of the couch. It’s not a pleasant surprise but, well. She mentally shimmies on her big girl panties and deals with it.

She’s prepping for pancakes- with the food network app pulled up on her iPad because Clarke knows the limits to her abilities- when Bellamy comes barreling in, dripping water all over the place and looking distinctly scandalized.

“You know I bought you pancake mix, right?” he says, poking apprehensively at the congealed mess in her mixing bowl, “In the event that I meet some grisly end and won’t be able to make pancakes for you anymore.”

“I wanted to make them from _scratch,_ ” Clarke scowls, smacking at his hand when he dips it back into the batter, disgust clear on his face, “and I wanted to add chocolate chips.”

“Which you can do with the pancake mix,” he mutters, pushing at her hip until she scoots over so he can rummage through the cupboards.

“I’m perfectly capable of frying up some pancakes, Bellamy.”

“There’s eggshell in your batter,” he points out, a tad too innocent, “you should probably fish that out.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” Clarke says, pointed, before sifting through the bowl and retrieving the shells. Bellamy hands over the milk at that, stupid smirk in place.

“Clockwise,” he yelps when she starts mixing the batter. “It’s my technique,” he adds, prim, when she shoots him a glare.

“Don’t you have a date to get ready for?” She manages when she feels his breath against the back of her neck. She meant it to sound nonchalant, _teasing,_ but her voice sounds strained even to her own ears.

“I don’t need much work,” Bellamy says without missing a beat, “Aesthetically pleasing, remember?”

“Doesn’t make up for your personality,” Clarke snipes- no heat behind her words- but he still lunges for her ribs anyway, tickling mercilessly while she narrowly misses elbowing him in the face.

He makes a grab for her wrists when she pinches at his armpit, pinning her against the counter with a shove of hips when she tries to stomp on his toes. His laugh is a distracted, breathless sound against her ear when she finally stops struggling, giving in to the helpless giggles building against her chest.

“You’re a lost cause,” he tells her, the fondness in his voice at odds with the words tumbling off his lips.

“And you’re rude,” she replies, wetting her lips when he sways closer, eyes sliding down to her mouth.

“Nothing I haven’t heard before,” Bellamy rasps, dark and all heat, and she has to dig her nails into the top of her thighs to remind herself that kissing him would probably be a terrible idea.

The moment stretches- tenuous and unbearable- until he finally pulls away, hands slapping against the outside of his thighs as he fumbles his way back to the other side of the counter.

Clarke clears her throat, forces the corners of her mouth up, “I got it from here. You should get changed.”

His answering smile is wry, genuine. It makes her heart lift stupidly in her chest.

“Not before I make you some pancakes,” he says, grinning, before reaching for the frying pan.

+

Nothing makes Bellamy quite as antsy as Octavia leaving him for an extended period of time, particularly to a foreign country where English isn’t the spoken language.

Clarke would make fun of him about it, but she doesn’t have the heart to. Not after she finds him rewatching Taken for the third time with a kind of single-minded intensity that suggests an imminent breakdown.

“ _Japan_ , Clarke.” he stresses, tugging at her hair impatiently so she’d pay attention to him, “Do you know dangerous it is?”

“I hear the pastries are killer,” Clarke says, conversational, swatting his hand away when he tugs harder at her braid. (She’s resolutely not looking at him.)

“Octavia’s lactose intolerant,” He pouts, slumping over the sofa and resting his chin against her knees, “she could get acute diarrhea.”

“Life-threatening stuff.” she manages, “A more logical assumption should have been scombroid poisoning, actually.”

He jerks off the sofa, clutching at her ankles instead when she tries to kick him off in exasperation.

“No, but should I be worried?”

The merciful thing to do, really, is to send him off grocery shopping to take his mind off things. She makes sure to give him a winding list.

Bellamy’s normally better with chores- considering he’s a lot more persistent and conscientious than she is- but she does try to make a dent with the laundry while he’s gone, which counts for something.

Clarke’s separating the darks from the whites when she hears a rustle of keys, the familiar sound of the door sticking before it swings off its hinges.

“Bell?” she calls out, grabbing a pair of his balled-up socks. (The likelihood of it being a serial killer isn’t high, but it’s probably good to be armed.)

“Nah, it’s the other Blake,” Octavia says, pushing in and slamming the door shut behind her with her foot.

“My favorite one,” she teases, socks pegging her cheek when she lobs it over.

“Lying is unattractive,” Octavia reminds her, sharp, before sinking down onto the sofa.

She swallows roughly at that, shoves her hand under her thighs to keep them steady before making eye-contact, “Bellamy’s out shopping.”

“You’re calling him Bell again,” Octavia says instead, voice even, but Clarke doesn’t miss the slight flare of her nostrils, the hardened edge to her words. She forgets, sometimes- with Octavia’s exuberance, her unbridled joy- that she could be angry too, that she could be as protective over her brother as he was over her.

At her non-response, Octavia tells her, fierce, “I won’t let you hurt him again.”

“I’m not planning to,” Clarke tries, the words wobbly in her mouth, faltering.

“You broke his heart the last time,” She shakes, voice rising in pitch as she straightens up, “you wrecked him and I had to spend months putting him back together-”

“I didn’t mean to-”

“But you did,” Octavia snarls, movements angry and jerky as she pushes up from the sofa, “you _left_ him because you’re nothing but a _coward_ -”

Her jaw is trembling with the effort of holding back tears, her breaths coming hard and fast, and Octavia must notice because she breaks off at that, looking almost regretful. Clarke wipes at her face, grabs onto her knees hard enough to bruise.

When Octavia speaks again, it’s quiet.

“I wanted to cut you off. I think I hated you more than he ever could.”

“So why are you still here?” she chokes, throat raw and teeth aching in a way that reminds her how much she fucking _hates_ crying.

“He asked me to,” Octavia says, weary, “He asked me to forgive you.”

 _And there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for him_ , she thinks, shuddering as she pushes down the sobs building against her chest, _there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for each other._

“Make up your mind, Clarke.” Her voice is soft now, pitying. Clarke almost wishes she was shouting again. “If you want him back, fight for him. But you have to be sure.”

“You’ll be the first to know.” she croaks, and that pulls a small smile from Octavia.

“Tell my brother I stopped by,” Octavia says, wrenching the door open, then haltingly, “I’m glad I didn’t. Cut you off, that is.”

It’s probably the closest thing she’ll get to a I love you from Octavia. Clarke sniffs, gives her the best smile she can muster under the circumstances, “I’m glad, too.”

“Be brave,” Octavia murmurs, and that’s that.

+

The first thing Bellamy does when he gets home is to yell at her about leaving the door unlocked.

“Honestly,” he grumbles, fluidly slotting the juice into the fridge before slamming it close with his heel, “do you know how unsafe this neighbourhood is, Clarke? Monroe from next door said someone tried to break her lock last week. We don’t even have a neighbourhood watch patrol.”

She swallows down the lump in her throat, thumping her head against the wooden frame of the kitchen door.

“Why don’t you do something about it then?”

He blinks, considering, “That’s an idea.” he says, pleased, and she has to bite at her lip to keep from grinning at him until his back is turned. Clarke feels stupidly, undeniably fond of him, and in that split second, watching him unload the groceries and chastise her for the state of the laundry, she _wants_.

She wants the apartment, with its quirks and its temperaments and the familiar sound of Bellamy’s sock-clad feet sliding against the floor. She wants to wake up to his solid frame, his warmth making her hair stick to the back of her neck.

She wants him- above anything else- and yeah, maybe she never stopped wanting at all.

“Are you ever planning on helping out?” he says, exasperated, and it’s enough to make her cross over to his side, to start unpacking.

“Starting now,” she tells him, and it’s impossible to miss the blinding smile he shoots her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I was going through the comments, and someone was like "gee, I sure hope they don't start dating other people cos that would suck!" and all I can really say to that is, well. My bad. I accept poisoned mini muffins in those cute hampers and fruit maybe
> 
> also I can't believe I wrote bellamy blake crying in one of my fics, I'm the worst


	4. september

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just going to apologize in advance for how long this chapter is but the ending just kind of got away from me. Anyway! One last epilogue to go which I will post up next week, and thanks for sticking with me on this guys!

**SEPTEMBER**

Bellamy’s looking up the pets section of the classifieds when she gets in, stinking of antiseptic and coffee.

Clarke drops her keys pointedly into the bowl, clears her throat when he remains immersed in his reading. He’s circled a few of the ads with a thick, black marker, his glasses sliding down his nose as he marks another one.

“Why can’t you just look at craigslist, like a normal person?” she asks, nudging his side until he relents, scooting ever so slightly to the side so they can share.

“I don’t know how that works.” he grouses, his arm coming around to rest at her waist, fingers dancing along the skin of her hip absentmindedly.

She hums in response, snuggling up against his side and tries not to think about how easy this feels to her; this _affection_ they have for each other despite everything.

“Can I ask why you’re looking at dog adoptions?”

“I’ve always wanted a dog,” he says defensively, his scowl deepening when she arches a single brow at him, “it’s true, okay?”

“You’ve never once mentioned it when we were dating.” Clarke muses, tapping her nails against his chest.

“Hey, maybe I’m finally ready for more responsibility.”

She bursts into laughter at that, startling him, his body jerking slightly under her touch before he resumes his petulant expression.

“Bellamy,” she breathes, wiping at her eyes, “You are the most responsible person I have ever met. Remember the part where you raised your sister?”

“Well, it’s not like she’s here now.” He sulks, kicking out at a table leg, “She’s off gallivanting in Japan with Lincoln.”

“There it is.”

“There is what?”

“The real reason you want a dog,” she tells him, stifling the urge to roll at her eyes at just how predictable he is, “you miss her.”

 _You’re lonely_ , she doesn’t say.

It’s hard not to notice how much more he skulks at home now. It’s still summer, for one, so there are no classes to occupy him. And she knows for a fact that he’s already done up his lesson plans for the next two months because she skimmed through them once when she was bored.

Plus with Octavia overseas, and Miller being occupied with Monty, well. Bellamy’s pretty much become a hermit.

She swallows, forces herself to put on a cheery tone, “What about Roma, huh? Why don’t you go hang out with her?”

“We’re not dating anymore,” he says flatly.

“Can I ask why?” At his hesitance, she adds, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

He shrugs, prods her gently against the outside of her thigh, “She wasn’t comfortable this arrangement, I guess.”

Clarke jerks out of his lap, has to seize the back of the chair so she wouldn’t fall over, “You told her?”

“In the interest of being honest, yes.”

She groans, tries to ignore the hopeful fluttering of her chest, “ _Bellamy_.”

“Present,” he mutters, tugging at her scrubs until she relents and sits back down again, “look, don’t feel bad. It wouldn’t have worked out either way. We want different things.”

She sighs, buries her head against his chest. She can feel his heart thumping unevenly through his shirt, the warmth of his palm when he rests it over her hip again.

“You know getting a dog isn’t going to help with anything, right?”

He’s quiet for a while, the only sound being the rustling of her scrubs as she shifts against him.

“Yeah,” he says finally, “I know.”

“You know what’s going to help?” she says, reaching past him to sweep the paper off to the side, “Takeout. And I’ll watch one of your stupid history documentaries with you.”

“They’re not stupid,” he says hotly, “They’re educational.”

She clucks her tongue at him, “Just go pick one before I change my mind.”

Clarke buys him a cactus the next day, mostly as a joke but Bellamy loves it. He lines his window with pots of plants and flowers throughout the summer, a constantly changing roster of blooms and leaves.

The cactus stays throughout.

+

It’s a pretty common occurrence for Clarke to be called in on a day off. Arcadia General is severely understaffed as it is, and considering that it’s summer, there’s been a constant influx of teenagers streaming in after a night of debauchery.

(Monroe sets up a whiteboard by the break room, starts counting off the number of stomach pumps they have to do. The number now stands at 138.)

So she’s not exactly surprised when she sees Sterling’s number flashing on her screen on her one off day in months.

It’s a Friday night too, so the hospital is bound to be overrun. There’s a part of her that’s sorely tempted to let it go to voicemail, but guilt wins out in the end so she stabs at the accept button on her screen and slides the phone under her shoulder.

“Sterling?”

“Clarke,” he breathes, hesitant, and she smiles a little at that because he might be the only one who’s still a little scared of her, “thank god.”

“Need me to get back in there?” she teases, wiping her paint-stained hands on her pyjama bottoms.

“No,” Sterling says, insistent, “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours but your phone must have been on silent or something. It’s uh, your friend? Bellamy?”

There’s a strange, insistent pressure building against her spine, squeezing her ribcage, and she can’t fucking _breathe_ -

“What about him?” Clarke manages, wincing at the crack of her neck when she straightens, palms sweaty as she fumbles for her phone.

“He has you listed as his emergency contact. He’s, uh. It’s not too bad, the car just grazed him, but-”

She exhales a muffled cry into her palm, _fuck_ , and she’s shaking so hard yet trying to speak all at once, teeth sliding over tongue and tasting blood-

“Clarke? You still there?”

She pauses, sucks in a deep breath of air to compose herself.

“What room is he in?”

“I’ll text you the details,” he says, reassuring, “Just get down here, okay? Drive safe.”

“Thank you,” she gets out, before she’s shoving her feet into a pair of slippers and running down the street to hail a cab.

+

Bellamy never once told her that she was his emergency contact. She had to figure it out on her own accord.

“How’s your passcode not Octavia’s birthday?” she grumbles, thumping against his chest as he grins down at her, his hand still carding through her hair absentmindedly.

“I like to keep you on your toes,” he retorts, before burying his face against the crook of her shoulder, kissing at the skin gently, “keeping the element of surprise in our relationship, and what not.”

And there’s that twinge again- the panic that surfaces at his casual reference to what they are, how _real_ it all is- but Clarke pushes it down, concentrates on brushing her fingers against different spots on his torso instead, hunting for the ticklish ones.

He jerks when she dips her pinkie along his navel- glaring when she grins up at him- before adding rather sourly, “You disabled my phone for ten whole minutes. I hope you’re happy.”

“What, are you expecting a life-threatening text to come in any minute now?”

“No, but I like having the option.” Bellamy mutters, groaning when she slides past him, pinning his hips against the mattress and knocking her knees against the outside of his thigh.

“Why are we _perpendicular_?”

“It’s comfortable,” she argues, reaching for his phone again.

His wallpaper is still a blurry, close-up shot of her eye, her lashes flecked with snow and the tassels of his winter hat barely visible against her face. It’s incomprehensible _why_ he likes the photo so much, but Clarke suspects it mostly has to do with the fact that she’s wearing the hat he actually knitted himself.

She slides her thumb over the screen, bringing up the emergency calls page. Bellamy,  unsurprisingly, already has his medical ID set up with the blood type and weight filled in. Clarke’s pretty sure he nagged at Octavia to get it done too, or maybe even filled it in for her-

And there- right under medical conditions- is her name, her number, _partner_ stated next to relational status.

She blinks, focuses her attention on the heading she missed earlier. Emergency contact.

“God, it’s disabled ‘til 2016 now, isn’t it?” Bellamy says, teasing, his hand coming up to massage the back of her neck.

Almost unconsciously, she hits the power button.

“Nah, I give up.” she forces out, scooting up and laying down against his sweaty chest instead. He hums in response, playing with the ends of her hair while she counts the seconds between each breath he takes.

His breath evens out around 328. Clarke presses a kiss against his sternum as he drifts off, skin feverishly hot under her hands when she staggers off the bed, gathering her clothes in the crook of her arm before she leaves.

+

The walk up to his room is a disorientating experience.

It’s crowded for one, just as she expected it would be. She stumbles along corridors, clumsy and off-balance, and it feels a lot like trying to plow through a field of snow in too big shoes.

There’s a persistent ache against her side and fog between her thoughts, and a part of her wants nothing more to sink into the nearest chair, but it’s Bellamy and she just can’t leave him. Not again.

Monroe latches onto her arm somewhere on the second floor, steering her up the stairwell in even, measured steps. Only when she’s through the door does she remember that this is in fact, a shortcut, something that she’s more than aware of considering she’s been working here for months.

“Thanks,” she says numbly, but the words sound garbled and incoherent rolling off her tongue.

Monroe’s grip on her tightens, nails scrabbling painfully against her forearm before she eases up, muttering apologies under her breath.

“He’s okay,” she tells her, slowing when they turn into a relatively empty ward, “bruised ribs and not much else, but. Harper thought we should keep him overnight just in case it’s a severe concussion.”

She catches a glimpse of his hair, dark against the stark white of his pillow. Her breath seizes painfully in his throat.

“Wake him up every three to four hours,” Monroe says, soft, “just to check on him, okay? If you’re not up for it, I can get someone else to do it.”

“It’s fine,” she manages, sinking into the chair by his bedside. His palms have scrapes on them, and Clarke winces at the thought of his body striking against gravel. He smells like antiseptic when she reaches over to push his hair off his clammy forehead.

“Has his family been informed?”

“I called his sister,” she manages, pulling her gaze away from the tanned strip of skin, the needle running through the vein, “she’s trying to catch a flight back, but it’s going to take a while.”

Monroe rests her hand against her shoulder, rubbing soothing circles against the bone just how she likes it. It’s a small comfort.

“He’s going to be fine,” And she never thought Monroe- ever so serious, stern faced- could sound so gentle, but here they are, “he has you.”

Clarke chokes out a laugh at that, eyes stinging, but she manages a watery smile anyway, “You should go. They’re drowning out there without you.”

“I’m not surprised,” she remarks, dry, breezing out of the door after one last squeeze of her shoulder.

The room is eerily quiet without Monroe, but Clarke’s in it for the long haul so she tries to get comfortable. There’s not much room for her to stretch her legs, so she pulls them up against her chest and rests her chin against her knees.

She’s vaguely comforted by the rise and fall of his chest, the deep, even breaths she can make out in the quiet. Bellamy’s always been that way-steady, constant- even when unconscious.

(A part of her aches to touch him, to hold his hand and feel his pulse fluttering against the skin of his wrist. But it’s not her place, not anymore at least. She’d have him, but only if he still wanted her.)

And she must fall asleep at some point, because her next coherent thought is, _someone’s talking._ Then, something clicks and she realises that it’s Bellamy.

“How bad is it?” he asks, wry, and when her lip begins to tremble, groans rather theatrically, “It got me in my face, didn’t it? That damned car came out of nowhere.”

“Relax, your face is intact.” she runs a palm over her face, wiping the moisture from her eyes, “You still get to keep your pretty boy status.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” Bellamy says, smiling at her, all sleepy and dopey, grit caught between his lashes.

“Wait,” he says, sudden, pushing up on his elbows as he takes her in, “you’re not on duty?”

“Day off,” Clarke tells him, and at his confused expression, adds, “you have me as your emergency contact.”

“Oh.” He wets his lips, considering, “That. Well, don’t go thinking you’re special now. I just figured you’d get me extra privileges and all, being a doctor.”

“Cut the crap, Bellamy. I know about being your emergency contact since _months_ back. Even before I was a doctor.”

He squirms a little at that, and before he can come up with a pathetic excuse, she asks, “Why not Octavia?”

“I wouldn’t want her to worry,” he mutters, sagging back against the mattress, “ _I’m_ supposed to take care of her. She doesn’t-- I wouldn’t,” Bellamy pauses, scrubbing a hand through his hair angrily, “Look, I knew I could count on you.”

 _Do you still?_ She nearly asks, but well. He’s bound to say no and she’s not sure she can handle it, especially in this state.

But something must show on her face, because he’s worrying his lip with his teeth, all hesitant. Then, softly, “I want to be able to count on you.”

“You can,” Clarke says, stumbling over the words in her haste, her bones popping obnoxiously loud as she unfurls herself from the chair, “I hope you still do. I want you to.”

And she should tell him that she’s sorry, too, that she wants his forgiveness more than anything. But he’s looking at her, eyes dark and jaw clenched and she can’t make out if he wants to kiss her or kill her. The words die on her tongue.

Just when she thinks he might actually be leaning towards the latter, (Okay, kill might be an exaggeration. Maybe just a lot of aggrieved yelling) he catches her wrist in his palm instead, the furrow in his brow deepening. “That chair looks really uncomfortable.”

She blinks at the abrupt change of topic, the way he’s tapping at the empty space on the bed beside him.

“No, Bellamy. You need the space.”

“I bet you’ve been sitting in that cramped position for hours,” he complains, tugging on her hand until she relents and gets to her feet, “there’s more than enough room, Clarke.”

“You’re going to get us kicked out.” she points out reluctantly, but she’s already settling down next to him anyway, toeing off her slippers and sliding under the sheets.

“See?” he says, a little breathless, their faces just scant inches from one another, “more than enough room.”

“Really spacious,” Clarke agrees, “You could probably fit Lincoln here-”

Then he surges forward to kiss her, mouth rough and teeth clacking. The angle is awkward- they keep bumping noses, and her neck aches from holding still- but it’s Bellamy and the kiss is still familiar but exciting all at once, all heat and _want_.

Clarke gasps against his mouth, twining her fingers into his hair instinctively when he deepens the kiss, pulling away only to mouth at her jaw when she loops her fingers around his neck. The next kiss is softer, chaste even, if he wasn’t caging her in with his body. She makes use of the change in momentum to roll them over so she’s straddling him instead.

“Fuck,” he mutters, wincing, and her cheeks flame at the realization that they’re at the _hospital_ and he’s _hurt_ -

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, swinging her leg over and away from him, grabbing at the edge of the table so as to keep from falling over, “do you need me to get someone?”

“It’s fine,” he adds hastily, “Just, uh. Forgot that I’m not supposed to do anything strenuous.”

“Are you sure?”

“Clarke,” he says, sounding positively mulish, “I’m fine.”

He takes up her hand again when she sits back down, running his thumb over her knuckles, fitting her wrist between his fingers, going from one point to the other. She laces their fingers together, presses down against the bones of his wrist, the edge of the plastic tubing cutting into her skin. The flare of pain reminds herself that this is all happening, that this is real and also very much overwhelming.

“We should probably just talk.” Clarke blurts out, blushing hotter at his raised brow, the way his eyes dart over to her undoubtedly swollen mouth. She clears her throat, forcing herself to regain her composure, and starts again.

“I’d like to talk it out when you want to. Obviously,” she backtracks, gesturing at the IV drip hovering by his side, “Whenever you’re better or feeling up to it.”

Bellamy snorts at that, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s holding back on a smile. “I’d like that,” he tells her, and she has to lean over to give him a quick peck because she’s pretty sure the wide grin on her face will give her away otherwise.

She can feel his mouth curving to smile as she pulls away, watching her with half-lidded eyes as she settles back into the chair with a loud thump.

“Tell me a story,” he says, drowsy, searching blindly for her hand until she takes his first.

“I’ll make it good,” She promises.

(Clarke counts the spaces between his breaths again this time, and when it finally evens out at 85, she curls into herself, head falling back, and stays right where she is.)

+

They’re hardly ever alone in the weeks after.

Octavia’s back, for one, and almost always permanently camped out at their place, glaring at Bellamy whenever he so much as breaks into a light jog and nagging at them whenever they get takeout.

And she thought only _one_ of the Blakes was capable of mother henning. Turns out Clarke is wrong about a lot of things.

Miller’s a constant presence too- dropping by every other day under some guise or another- mostly to yell at Bellamy about his terrible life choices. (“I thought I taught you better than to get hit by a fucking car, Blake.”) At least Monty has the decency to bring video games every time he drops by, which makes him Bellamy’s new favorite.

So no, they haven’t talked yet.

(The last one-on-one interaction they had was the morning after the kiss, bleary-eyed and mouth dry, hair a tangled clump against her neck and all he said when he woke up was, “You stayed.”

“Get used to it,” she told him, and that was that.)

He’s on bed-rest for the next week or so, according to Octavia, which is the worst because a restless Bellamy is _impossible_ to deal with. Constantly irritable, moody, prone to tantrums. It’s like living with a eight year old- granted, one with a lot more body mass- because no one could lift him that one time he fell asleep on the couch.

“My back still hurts,” he whines when she totters in with his soup, “I don’t want to sit up. Why can’t you just pour it down my throat?”

“Well, Octavia likes you better when you’re not choking,” Clarke mutters, propping up one of the many pillows piled on his bed, “I beg to differ, though.”

He sobers at that, pushing his head against her stomach while she pretends to be preoccupied with fluffing the pillows.

“I know I’m being difficult.”

“And?” she presses, narrowing her eyes to glare when he starts to pout.

“And I’m sorry,” Bellamy grumbles, pushing himself off on his elbows and settling against the pillows, “I’m just tired of being treated like a invalid. I’m not even sick, I don’t need soup.”

“There are worse things than someone looking out for you,” she reminds him, which seems to placate him enough to start poking at his dinner, at least.

“What is this even supposed to be?”

“Black bean soup,” Clarke says, absentmindedly yanking at the loose thread hanging off his sheets, “it’s packed with antioxidants.”

“Forget it,” he says, dropping his spoon and pushing the tray aside, looking distinctly queasy, “I’d rather starve to death.”

“Octavia’s not going to let your favorite person up if you don’t finish it.”

His forehead creases at that, clearly confused, “Who?”

“Monty,” she says with exaggerated slowness, “he brought, uh. Grande thieves, I think. He said you’d be thrilled.”

“Grand theft auto,” Bellamy mumbles, then impatiently, “Who said anything about Monty being my favorite?”

“You light up whenever he enters the room,” she teases, pretending to count off her fingers, “you told him you loved him when he brought you that pumpernickel bagel. When he told Octavia to give it a rest and let you out for some fresh air, I thought you would _propose_ -”

“All true.” he interrupts, amused, “But I couldn’t do that to Miller. I’m a great friend.”

“You’re also more than a little afraid of Miller.” she points out, “He could beat you up with his hands tied behind his back.”

“Nah,” Bellamy says, mild, “plus you’re still my favorite anyway.”

“Thrilled,” Clarke manages, and maybe it’s because he’s looking her like that, all fond and familiar in a way that breaks her fucking heart, so she adds, “I don’t deserve it.”

“Don’t say that,” he tells her-so quickly that she can’t help but wonder if it’s instinctive for him, at this point- “yeah, you fucked up. But I should be apologizing too.”

“Bell,” she says, firm despite her shaking hands, “you didn’t do anything wrong. It was all on me, I was-”

“No,” he cuts in, forceful and patient all at once, like maybe he too, spent days tossing around the words in his head until they formed exactly what he wanted to say, “hear me out, okay?”

“Okay.” she breathes, adjusting her position by the foot of his bed. Their knees touch, just barely, but the brief contact is comforting still.

“I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard.” he says, quiet, “When we got into this, you said you wanted to take it slow. And I agreed to it, but I didn’t-” His voice hitches for a second, before he composes himself and continues, “I would get carried away, and I never stopped to think about how it would make you feel.”

“God,” Clarke exhales roughly into her sleeve, rubbing it across her cheek, “you shouldn’t have to apologize for being serious about me.”

“I knew what I was getting into.” His smile is small, crooked, and she sinks into his touch when he uses the fleshy part of his thumb to wipe off the moisture beading up at the corners of her eyes.

“I was scared. That’s not a good enough reason for leaving, but that’s exactly what happened.”

He still has her face in his hands, thumb making slow, absentminded revolutions against her cheek instead. She takes hold of his wrist in hers, squeezes, because above anything, he’s always made her brave.

“Everything was moving so fast, and the talk with my mom didn’t help-”

“When has it _ever_ ,” Bellamy grumbles, nose bumping against hers when he shifts.

“So what I mean to say is that I’m sorry.” She takes another deep breath, paces herself, “There’s no excuse for what I did. But I want-- I want to fix this, Bell.” She lets her head fall forward at that, so their foreheads are lined up together, “I want this with you.”

“Okay,” He tells her, finally, after a pregnant pause, “I believe you.” His warm breath fans against her nose, the edge of her lips, “So, okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Okay,” Bellamy says lowly, and she’s not sure if it’s his voice or if it’s the proximity that makes her shiver, “Let’s try again.”

And she can’t help it, she laughs- because it’s such a relief, because it’s Bellamy and he still wants her- it’s a mess when he tries to kiss her, all clashing teeth and lips pressing up against each other instead of any actual kissing, sloppy and uncoordinated and breathless giggles into each others mouths.

“You’re impossible,” he gasps against her temple as she buries her face into his shoulder, still grinning, “I’m trying to-- you’re just--”

“I’m just really happy,” Clarke manages, pressing a kiss against the hollow of his throat, the underside of his jaw, “I missed you.”

“Then stop _smiling_ so I can kiss you properly already,” Bellamy retorts, pushing her down against the bed and nuzzling at her collarbone until she bats him away.

“You’re not supposed to do anything strenuous.” She laughs, grinding her hips again his until he groans and pulls away, swearing under his breath.

“This isn’t strenuous,” he adds, petulant, before ducking down to give her a kiss. The angle is horrible- with him hunched on his elbows so he wouldn’t crush her and Clarke having to lift herself half way to meet him- but eventually Bellamy loses the resolve to be careful, pressing her down against the mattress and kissing her senseless while she digs her nails into his shoulder blades, holding him there.

“Octavia’s going to kill me,” Clarke whimpers when he nips at her earlobe, “I was just supposed to get you to eat your dinner.”

“I’ll eat it after,” he says, a tad too innocently, before flicking open the button of her jeans, dancing his fingers along the band of her underwear, “it’ll probably taste better cold.”

“I’m not having sex with you when Octavia and Monty are _right downstairs_.” she hisses, bumping her foot against his ass when he chuckles against her neck.

“No one said anything about sex,” Bellamy admonishes, holding his solemn expression for all of five seconds before breaking out into a grin, “I’m planning on romancing you, Clarke Griffin.”

“G’luck with that,” she snarks, until he does something with his fingers that leaves her grinding against his knee helplessly.

He gets her off twice with his hands before she manages to repay the favour, clumsy and rushed considering she’s beyond blissed out and hazy from everything. He pulls her close after, fingers tangling in her hair as she thumps down against his sweaty chest, fighting to stay conscious.

“Octavia’s going to figure it out if I fall asleep here.” she slurs, blindly scrabbling to button up her jeans before he reaches over and does it for her.

“I’ll fend her off,” he murmurs, dropping a dry kiss against her hair, “don’t go anywhere.”

“Wasn’t planning to,” she tells him, breathing him in- sweat and salt and Bellamy’s shampoo- “I’m going to be around all the time now. You’re going to get sick of me.”

“I’m counting on it,” he tells her, wry, before pulling the sheets over their intertwined bodies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to name the cactus ok guys (priorities) but then I struggled with it for two whole days and just gave up. Anyway, TRUE NORTH GUYS. whoop whoop.


	5. ..and after

**...AND AFTER**

Clarke Griffin has never _once_ lost her key in her eight years of living in the apartment.

It’s the one thing that she loves to dangle over Bellamy’s head, a footnote to one of the countless arguments they have about her lack of organizational skills. She reminds him of it every time he gets on her case about leaving her shoes scattered around the house, or when she uses the blender and forgets to wash it for days.

(His response is always the same; mild exasperation and grudging admittance, a mumbled _yes,_ _it is a feat of sorts_.)

So naturally, she’s not going to tell him about it when she loses her keys. No fucking way. Clarke has a reputation to maintain here, okay?

The plan is to grab his keys when he’s sufficiently distracted, get it duplicated, and replace it before he notices. It’s pretty fool-proof, considering it’s a Saturday and Bellamy never leaves the house when _ancient aliens_ is on.

So she’s not banking on him to be in the room when she emerges from the shower, his back facing hers as he scrolls through craigslist. She’s not surprised- not at first- mostly because Bellamy’s looks up everything on craigslist now that he’s gotten the hang of it. But upon closer inspection, (squinting and getting on her tiptoes) she realises that he’s actually looking at the real estate pages, which is, well. New.

“I wouldn’t recommend that one if you’re picking a place to hide your secret wife.” she points out, mild, “You wouldn’t be able to stand the commute.”

He jumps guiltily at that, but regains his composure soon enough, wrapping his arms around her when she pads over and settles in his lap, kissing the curve of her shoulder when she reopens the window.

“Why are you looking at _houses_?” Clarke asks, defensive. They’ve been staying in the same apartment for years now, even after they got married. Bellamy likes to attribute it to how close it is to both their workplaces, even though she knows it’s more of the sentimentality factor.

Her art’s on the walls, along with a framed copy of Bellamy’s doctorate. Their curtains are riddled with tiny holes from when Clarke left a safety pin in the washing machine, and the carpet has various questionable stains on it mostly because they can’t break the habit of eating takeout off it. Everything’s a little worn, but. It’s _theirs._

“I found this in the trash.” he says in response, fishing out a tightly wrapped bundle of tissues. She makes a half-hearted attempt to unwrap fort knox (boy scout Bellamy, she thinks, grumpy) before he gives in and does it for her.

“Oh,” she croaks, when he unveils her pregnancy test kit. There’s some questionable food splatters on it from when she buried it under the entire contents of the trash, but the parallel pink lines are unmistakable.

“I dived into the dumpster for this,” he tells her, fond, “I was unloading it, and uh. It was caught on a orange peel.”

Clarke groans, leans down to press her face against the skin of his neck, nuzzling so he squirms, “I was going to tell you tomorrow. It was going to be a big deal and everything.”

“Oh yeah? What did you have in mind?”

“I had custom cupcakes made.” she mumbles, and when his hands slide down to rest against her stomach gently, adds, “They were really expensive, too because it was a _rush_ order. With coconut icing and all that jazz.”

“I can’t believe I had the nerve to ruin my own surprise,” Bellamy sighs, mocking, but it gives way to a laugh soon enough, his hand rubbing soothing circles against her belly, “I can’t fucking believe it.”

“You’re a _dad_ ,” she says, and he grins back at her, delighted, raining kisses on her cheeks, her eyelids, the tip of her nose. Clarke squeals, loops her arms around his neck when he lifts her up and walks them over to the bed, dropping her on it carefully.

“My hair’s still wet.”

“Don’t care,” he says, pulling her close, chin resting on her forehead and arms around her waist, still smiling stupidly, “This is possibly the best day of my life.”

She leans up, kisses him hard until he moans into her mouth, pulling away only so she can resume her position of resting her head against his chest, “Yeah, it is.”

“I didn’t--” Bellamy pauses, hands going back to her stomach again, absent minded, “I didn’t think we needed to move, or anything but. The apartment’s tiny, Clarke. In the long run, moving kind of seems like a smarter option.”

“You’re right,” It comes out a little slurred, sleepy from the dual sensation of him carding his fingers through her hair and rubbing her belly, “it’s a smart decision. But I still wish we could keep this place.”

Bellamy hums in agreement, caressing her sides, tracing the edge of her navel with his fingers.

“It brought me back to you.” Clarke says, soft, taking his hand and lacing their fingers together, “Leaving just feels kind of sad, I guess. Like the end of an era.”

“We’ll be okay.” The cadence of his voice sends warmth surging down her toes, familiar and soothing all at once, “You may not know this, but I’m betting on us.”

(He remembered. Of course he did.)

“I’m all-in,” she tells him, his pulse a steady, thrumming beat under her palm before she finally drifts off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we're done! Thanks so much for sticking with me on this guys, it has been a blast. I don't say this enough but I really appreciate all the comments and kudos you guys leave for me. They never fail to make me smile. Hope y'all are enjoying your holidays!

**Author's Note:**

> come over and yell at me on [tumblr.](http://prosciuttoe.tumblr.com/)


End file.
